[The funny thing is, if you got something ugly to get off your chest, Blake isn't a bad one to tell it to. After all his years on the force, there's not much left that can shock him. He just takes it in.
He's done a lot of hearing this kind of story. Usually it takes coaxing and questions, leading them on, trying to get it all straight and calling them back when they break down crying or stare into nowhere. It would have made his job a lot easier if there were more like Ishimaru who just listed off the facts.
Of all the sick shit he's seen in his life - and there's a list that'd take days to read down - this is something special. Something elaborate. Usually the nasty shit gets its special oomph from the makeshift brutality that comes in the heat of the moment. A head smashed in a freezer door, a nailfile through somebody's hand. The rarest thing is a plan.
What Ishimaru is talking about is orchestrated. Meticulous pre-fucking-meditation. Most murders don't actually have that many moving parts. Guy shoots a guy with a gun. Maybe if he's the real intellectual type, he thought about it first. The real world's messy and unpredictable. You don't really see elaborate horror-movie mad-scientist set-ups.
He can think of one exception.]
Christ. That is a special kind of sick. Making you into a part of the machine.
[Don't even do the dirty work yourself - give them no choice but to do it for you.
Conviction darkens Blake's eyes.]
It was never you. Any of you. You get that, right? There was one murderer there. They just used some of you as the fucking weapons. No real court in the god damn world would hold you responsible.
Now, the other way around, if I was up on one of those trials of yours... [There'd be some kind of weird justice in that. In front of a court of kids, for a crime that a kid suffered for.
It's a total honesty that he looks at Ishimaru with. In a way, it's kind of comforting. Bright and certain as headlights when you're standing in the middle of the road.]
[locked]
He's done a lot of hearing this kind of story. Usually it takes coaxing and questions, leading them on, trying to get it all straight and calling them back when they break down crying or stare into nowhere. It would have made his job a lot easier if there were more like Ishimaru who just listed off the facts.
Of all the sick shit he's seen in his life - and there's a list that'd take days to read down - this is something special. Something elaborate. Usually the nasty shit gets its special oomph from the makeshift brutality that comes in the heat of the moment. A head smashed in a freezer door, a nailfile through somebody's hand. The rarest thing is a plan.
What Ishimaru is talking about is orchestrated. Meticulous pre-fucking-meditation. Most murders don't actually have that many moving parts. Guy shoots a guy with a gun. Maybe if he's the real intellectual type, he thought about it first. The real world's messy and unpredictable. You don't really see elaborate horror-movie mad-scientist set-ups.
He can think of one exception.]
Christ. That is a special kind of sick. Making you into a part of the machine.
[Don't even do the dirty work yourself - give them no choice but to do it for you.
Conviction darkens Blake's eyes.]
It was never you. Any of you. You get that, right? There was one murderer there. They just used some of you as the fucking weapons. No real court in the god damn world would hold you responsible.
Now, the other way around, if I was up on one of those trials of yours... [There'd be some kind of weird justice in that. In front of a court of kids, for a crime that a kid suffered for.
It's a total honesty that he looks at Ishimaru with. In a way, it's kind of comforting. Bright and certain as headlights when you're standing in the middle of the road.]
I wouldn't give a lot for my chances.